Twilight Woods: I Can't Say the Words
by Sparticus328
Summary: He sat as still as he could. It was a difficult objective…when that smell kept passing him. Sherlock was pacing. Not unusual for the detective, but of late, it was rather distracting for the doctor... Just a little fluff piece. Johnlock. One-Shot.


**A/N: One weekend spent with a friend, and a trip into Bath and Body Works…we found a "Sherlock" fragrance, and wild thoughts ensued… Thank you, KoraM852, for being my friend and getting me out of my life once in a while. Thank you, Gameson221b, for being my friend, for sharing my obsession, and continuing to be such an amazing encouragement.**

**Now, wait no more. Read and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: John and Sherlock…too bad I have no rights to film it…**

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><p>Twilight Woods<p>

I Can't Say the Words

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><p>John watched sleepily as he poured hot water from the kettle for his tea. It was the first step to waking up after little more than two hours of sleep, courtesy of the late shift at the surgery and running about the streets of London until all hours.<p>

His mug sat before him, steaming invitingly. The curve of the lip presented a cheerful sort of face that he wanted to turn over on impulse, just for being more awake than he was.

He thought again, why was he awake?

Ah, right. Greg wanted them to give their statements first thing.

The bathroom door opened somewhere behind him, a waft of steam escaping the confines of the small room.

"Sherlock…"

"Yes, John?"

John turned around to see Sherlock toweling off his hair, wild spikes and waves not yet coiled into the usual unruly curls. His blue dressing robe was loosely tied about his waist, his smooth upper chest exposed.

"Oh, did you make tea?" Sherlock swept over, dropping his towel on the table beside his flatmate.

John stared after Sherlock, wondering blearily what the scent was that Sherlock carried around with him. He couldn't even begin to describe it. His sense of smell was not as refined or well-catalogued as the detective's.

"Sherlock. What is that?" He took in a long breath through his nose, following the scent to Sherlock's collar. His nose ran along the edge of his robe. If the detective felt the brush of breath against his neck, he didn't show it.

"My soap…?" Sherlock lifted an arm, sniffing his shoulder. "What's wrong with it?"

John leaned against the counter, not trusting his legs to support him on their own. Because he was so tired—at least that's what he told himself.

He didn't respond. Sherlock eyed him warily, sniffing his arm again.

John eventually dismissed it, accrediting his response to the massive lack of sleep and resulting hypersensitivity to sensory stimuli. Even the smell of the tea was strong to him this morning…

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><p>He sat as still as he could. It was a difficult objective…when that smell kept passing him. Sherlock was pacing. Not unusual for the detective, but of late, it was rather distracting for the doctor.<p>

"God. Sherlock, must you?" John feigned annoyance. When all he really wanted to do was pull off the layers one at a time and figure out how deep the smell rested.

Sherlock slowed a few paces, but resumed his usual rate. "Hush, John. I'm thinking."

"And what's so straining on your brain that you need to wear a hole through the floor?" John snapped his book closed, setting it on the side table.

Sherlock gave up pacing and flopped into his chair opposite John. A waft of scent skirted on the air right to John's nose. The doctor held his breath, but wasn't able to keep it from permeating his senses.

The phrase "crawling from one's skin" had never been so accurate.

It was a minor miracle that John hadn't passed out from lack of oxygen, or bolted from the room. He did consider running laps around the block to dispel some of the tension coiled in his limbs.

But he sat still, his back unnaturally straight, hands clenched to his knees.

The posture did not go unnoticed by the detective. His eyes observed the flexing of knuckles, rising to read the forced passivity on John's face. He dismissed the contradiction of behavior. "Mycroft has left me a message. A problem with some committee member…and has commanded my help. I'm trying to figure a way out of it."

"Just go." John sighed. "You spend far too much time and energy trying to thwart his involvement in your life…"

"Is that to say you want to have Mycroft visiting at hours uncalled for?"

Sherlock stood, issuing another wave of scent about the room. John tilted his head as it rolled past him. He took a steadying breath. It was just a faint scent, but it was overpowering…and it had been a long time since something so subtle incapacitated the doctor.

"John. If I don't fight him on things like this, he will think he's won. And that will make him even more insufferable…" Sherlock pursed his lips. "I would rather not have him involved in our life."

John swallowed, determining not to read into that statement.

The detective passed him on his way to the kitchen. "You won't go in my place?"

"Stop whining." John pushed to his feet. "Take care of your own family problems. The last time I helped Mycroft with something, I nearly got blown up."

Sherlock stopped, his back to John. "I know. I was there." His voice was quiet.

He turned, returning to stand before the doctor. "Would you come with me?"

John shuddered. _Don't stand so close. _"I have a medical conference in Bristol. There wouldn't be much point."

The detective looked disappointed. "Well. This is going to be tedious. And hateful."

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><p>John hadn't meant to stare quite so long as Sherlock peered through the microscope. Hadn't meant for his eyes to wander…down the long neck, along the arm as it reached to adjust the magnification, the back arched forward to look through the eye-pieces.<p>

He hadn't intended to press his mouth closed and scrape his teeth over the lower lip. Hadn't intended make a sound…

He definitely hadn't thought Sherlock would pay any attention to the muffled groan that escaped him.

But he did, a mild look of curiosity darkening his eyes.

John turned back around in his chair, pretending to go back to his book. He turned pages periodically, hoping to disguise the fact that he hadn't taken in a word.

It wasn't until the book was pulled from his hands that he knew he'd been caught.

"Reading something interesting, John?"

John's eyes stared at the second button of Sherlock's dark shirt. He couldn't form words. He stood, ducking around the detective. He made his way to the stairs, escaping to his own room on the second floor.

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><p>Mycroft tapped his fingers against the rounded handle of his umbrella. Sherlock stared across the room at his brother, not really seeing him.<p>

"Well, brother-mine, are you quite ready to go now?"

The abused gray lounge chair sagged beneath the detective as he stood. Rather than follow his brother to the door, he turned and strode to the window. He looked out, watching… as if waiting… for someone.

John had already left for his medical conference, and the flat was ominously quiet. Sherlock didn't much like the feeling.

He hadn't realized how much of a presence the doctor had. The tapping keys, the scratching pen, the scuffling feet… the innocuous noises of daily activity… they echoed through his brain, memories recorded for no particular reason.

But something about John had been… not usual… over the past few days.

The computer keys pausing between strokes... The pen stopping completely... The feet… shifting away...

He kept reviewing their interactions but could not identify what he could have done, why John was becoming so distant.

"Pressing matters, Sherlock. Or must I drag you out?"

Sherlock turned back to his brother, frowning deeply. "Impatient, are we, Mycroft? Something urgent to get back to?"

Mycroft sneered at his brother. "More like something you are hesitant to leave behind?"

Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably. God, did he hate it when his brother was right…

The politician stalked out of the flat. "Come along, Sherlock. You can sort out the business with your doctor when you return. I suspect he will be waiting for you."

Sherlock gave a cursory glance at the empty red armchair, and followed his brother from the room.

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><p>"I am surprised at you, Sherlock. It was so simple, and yet it took you a week."<p>

"Shut up, Mycroft."

The brothers trundled up the stairs. One sedately. The other rather noisily, displeased with the insistence of his company.

"Your team wasn't getting it done any faster. I'll tell you this, the next time you have a government crisis, don't contact me."

Sherlock swung the door of the flat open and stopped. As he hovered on the threshold, he couldn't help but notice that something was off about the flat…

He bodily prohibited his brother from following him inside. He turned about, blocking the curious flick of Mycroft's eyes as they tried to see past his brother's shoulder.

"That's it then. Job's done. Good bye, Mycroft." The door was shut and bolted.

Sherlock stood still, his hands raised to brace against the door. His mind ticked carefully, assessing what had caught him off-guard.

"What was all that about?" John came down the hall, his hair still damp from a recent shower.

Sherlock sniffed the air. He removed himself from the door and stalked closer to his flatmate, his nose sensing the way. He inhaled the air around John. "Is that my—?"

"Yeah, sorry. I ran out this morning. Had to use yours."

Sherlock drew in a breath of air across his teeth. "John, that is… Not allowed."

John's back stiffened. "Well don't leave it in the bathroom, if you don't want me to use it, you great prat."

Sherlock could see that he'd been misunderstood. "That's not the point."

He invaded John's space, forcing the doctor back. They moved toward the kitchen, Sherlock right at John's toes with each backwards step he took.

"What are you doing? Jesus, Sherlock. It's just soap." John had to stop when he hit the door casing at the back of the kitchen.

"Not…the…point." Sherlock crept closer, his nose moments away from John's jaw. The doctor tensed, irrationally concerned Sherlock might tear his throat out.

The detective sniffed at the skin just below John's ear. The mix of scents made him shiver. He hummed, his nose digging into the flesh at the doctor's throat.

"What-are you doing?" John repeated, his voice jagged.

Sherlock grinned, as the vibration of John's larynx rumbled against his face. The detective pulled back, locking his eyes to the doctor's. "The only way I want that scent on you, is if I put it there."

The detective's voice was level.

John carefully sidestepped out of the cage of Sherlock's arms. He took a slow breath. "Shall I wash it off then?"

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><p>John stepped from the bathroom, a towel wrapped tightly around his hips. A rustle of newspaper drew his eyes to look in the direction of the sitting room. Sitting at the table they sometimes used for meals, Greg Lestrade was folding the morning's paper.<p>

"Hiya, Greg." John cleared his throat.

"Hey John. I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Hudson let me in. Sorry to interrupt your weekend like this…" He didn't think anything of finding his friend just out of the bath. He stepped into the kitchen, approaching Sherlock's closed bedroom door. "I was hoping Sherlock would be around."

"Uh…" John shifted, blocking Greg from reaching the door. "Actually, he said something about taking the day off. Sorry Greg."

The bathroom door opened behind him. "John… Oh. Lestrade. What are you doing here, on a Saturday." It wasn't a question. It was a dismissive statement.

John didn't have to turn to know that Sherlock had abandoned his towel, leaving it hanging on the rack inside the door. He stepped to his right, blocking the view of the door.

"Well. I never thought I would see it." Greg raised a hand to scratch at the back of his head. "Sherlock Holmes not jumping at the chance of a case."

"I am in the middle of a rather extensive investigation. I can't possibly take the time to help you sort out something as simple as a case." Sherlock caught the back of John's towel, yanking him back toward the door.

John grasped for the ends of the towel, keeping it closed. "Jesus, Sherlock."

Sherlock leaned close behind John, his lips dropping to his ear. "Stop fidgeting with your towel, John. You know I'll just remove it again."

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><p><strong>AN: It started as a simple thought. But, of course—as I am bound to—I extrapolated… and musical influence made it build again… I hope it is as entertaining to you as it is to me! Do let me know what you think! Comments are welcome and much appreciated!**

**Of things that make this mean so much more, Bastille's "Poet":**

…your body lies upon the sheet

Of paper and words so sweet

I can't say the words

So I wrote you into my verse

Now you'll live through the ages

I can feel your pulse in the pages

I have written you down…


End file.
